Francisco Jose - Dusk

An-no had argued against bringing the mortar, for it was heavy, so they brought only the pestles. He wondered if they would be able to find another trunk as solid and as hardy as this.

From its perch on the guava tree near the house a rooster crowed. Istak looked up at the sky, at the stars that still studded it like gems. The east had started to pale; he could hope for the morrow — this was what Padre Jose had always said, although his father had long since given up the fervent prayer. Padre Jose — a rock of virtue, of kindness, maybe because he had spent more than forty years in Filipinas. After dinner, in the early evenings, he would indulge in his only vice — a glass of tinto dulce , which Istak served. He had once caught Istak tasting the wine and he had roared with his only expletive: “¡Carajo!” But he had, perhaps, immediately felt so miserable at having to scold his favorite acolyte that he gave the young man instead one glass — one full glass — to sip in his presence.

Istak had gotten drunk, but Padre Jose was drunker and started to sing of his youth in a voice out of tune and loud.

And on Istak’s twenty-first birthday, he was summoned to the musty room where the old priest slept. And from an ancient cabinet he brought out a ledger bordered with gold and gave it to Istak. It was handsomer than the ledgers he used for the registry of births, deaths, and marriages. Istak was dumbstruck by the richness of the gift. The old priest said, “Here, Eustaquio — write down your thoughts. In Latin because you know it well now …”

He had expected that year to enter the Vigan seminary and take the ledger with him, but when he left Cabugaw he also left it behind. The young priest would inspect his things and it would seem as if he had pilfered expensive church property. He left it in the sacristy among the other ledgers. It all came to mind, what he had written one early dawn like this when visions of the future were sunny, even in that dreary room behind the sacristy where the acolytes slept.

He wrote:

We go from one darkness to another and in between, the hidden light of the world, of knowledge. We open our eyes and in this circle of light, we see not just ourselves but others who are our likenesses. This light tells us all men are brothers, but even brothers kill one another, and it is in this light where all this happens. But living in this dazzling light does not blind us to what lies beyond the darkness from where we emerged and where we are going. It is faith which makes our journey possible though it be marred by the unkindness of men, their eternal faulting, before we pass on to another darkness.

So they are gone and, as he promised, he would follow them to Solana, to the valley, which Dalin said would be their haven. He would take the shortest route, cross the Cordilleras in Tirad, which he already knew, then risk the journey through Igorot country, hoping the friends he had made there would remember him.

Would he be able to leave? He had decided to suffer in his father’s stead — so stay he must so that they could leave without being hounded. He would explain, he would beg, he would tell them his forfeited life was just as good. And perhaps there would be compassion for him; perhaps Padre Jose would intercede, tell them what a good and loyal subject he was. After what his father had done, there was no more hope — ever — of his going to Vigan. Of what use was this plodding, then? He was not a farmer; he must learn how to become one, to leave behind the intoxicating world of books. It had occurred to him how he had often felt a pang of guilt when he was still in Cabugaw, remembering his brothers and parents immersed in the drudgery of Po-on. He had been untrue to them, he could not pay back even a kusing of the debt he owed them all. Now was his chance to redeem himself. These were the thoughts badgering him when his eyes became heavy with sleep, and he lowered himself onto the polished floor of the threshing trough.

He woke up to the thunder of horses’ hooves on the hardened earth. He rose quickly and recognized Capitán Gualberto of the Lawag garrison, a shock of blue-and-black uniform in the morning light, his golden epaulets gleaming. He had come to the convent so many times, always carefully groomed, his boots shiny, his uniform well pressed, his short-cropped hair trimmed so that the white of his scalp just above the nape and the cars shone. On these occasions Istak had served him hot chocolate and rice cakes, and the Guardia officer had always thanked him in a raspy, effeminate voice belying the anger that burned in him, anger at the recalcitrant Igorots whose domain was denied him, anger at the secret enemies of Spain, the masons. Maybe Capitán Gualberto would remember, maybe he would consider his plea.

With the officer was Capitán Berong and six Indio Guardia. Capitán Berong’s white shirt was drenched with sweat and dirtied.

Istak rushed to meet them. To Capitán Berong, first, then to the Spanish officer, his eyes beseeching, in polite Spanish, as was expected of him, his good morning, then: “I beg for mercy, Apo …”

It was as if Capitán Berong, who had asked him to teach his daughters, had never known him. “He is the son,” the capitán said to the Spaniard, his voice rimmed with derision. “Evil is in him as well.” Was this the same man who had said he, Eustaquio Salvador, was needed in Cabugaw?

Capitán Gualberto drew the revolver from his holster. “And where are they? And your father with one arm?”

He did not want to lie, but God forgive me, I must protect them, I must be worthy of the blood that flows in me, and it came out quickly, the words carefully chosen, “Apo, when Capitán Berong said that we must leave Po-on where we were all born, we followed what we were ordered to do. Except for me, they all left yesterday, Apo. I chose to remain, to watch over this village in the hope that I–I may be allowed to stay”—he glanced at Capitán Berong—“perhaps to teach … but if by leaving they have committed a crime, then take me in their stead …”

“That is easy,” Capitán Gualberto said, taking aim with his revolver. “Spanish justice triumphs again.”

How Does Death come? Dalin, Ave Maria, purísima —a rod of black catching a glint of sun, the hole — the big, black hole, Dalin, Ama mi adda ca sadi langit , the spark of fire, the thunder and the massive hammer, oh, the black, black pain, the blackness, Dalin, Dalin …

The light came first as a ruddy glimmer which grew larger, brighter, then took shape, hazy but real, an are of sunlight and above the are, what seemed like a roof, yes, a roof of matted palm leaves. I am alive, I am seeing something real. I am alive, I can feel the throbbing in my head.

He stirred and a sudden pain exploded in his chest, scared his entire being, so sharp, so intense he screamed, the sound erupting from the depths, confirming that, indeed, he was alive. It all came back, the gun pointed at him, the burst of orange flame, the massive hammer that struck him. Now he tried to raise his right hand, but there was no right hand at all. Have I lost it? Have I become a man with just one arm like my father? He tried to turn to his side; the arm was there but it no longer followed his command.

It was not the voice of an angel which he heard, although it might just as well have been. No sound was more sweet, more well remembered afterward, than “I am here,” she said. “Don’t move, else you will start bleeding again …”

He turned to the voice; Dalin was silhouetted against the are of light and though he could not see her distinctly, her presence touched him with its promise, her hand upon his left arm, like some magic balm that cased all the fears that possessed him. I can go to sleep now. This is not true, this is not true; this is some blissful dream and I don’t want to wake up!